


The First Train Outta Town

by koldtblod



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dubious Morality, Gen, Is this really the first fic in Killer Prostitute tag?, Mentions of sex work, Set during Chap2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:27:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28609827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koldtblod/pseuds/koldtblod
Summary: Her intentions are just as honourable as those of the men who push themselves against her.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	The First Train Outta Town

**Author's Note:**

> Alright listen, I love to do this thing where I get attached to secondary characters for no good reason and, well, here we are. And yes, she's new in town.  
>   
> Featuring middling-morality Arthur Morgan because that’s how I go.

He never asks her name.

She never asks his.

Margaret is smart enough to keep the details to herself even if she's stupid enough to return to the same rented room night after night.

It's not as if she plans for it to happen, of course. Her intentions are just as honourable as those of the men who push themselves against her, with whiskey on their breath and a tent in their trousers. There is one thing on their mind when they follow Margaret up to the room and one thing on hers when she pushes them to the bed.

She never wears pearls, but she could buy some with all the money she swindles from their back pockets after the deed is done.

The problem is...

Margaret never strips down past her slip. She never gets as far as opening her legs for the men she lures upstairs because instead, she kisses their mouths; she straddles their waists as she listens to the dirty words and feels the roaming, groping hands and then hers are covered in blood.

She's drawn the knife from the back of her corset and gosh, darn, she's done it again.

Another bites the dust.

She's breathing heavy atop a dead-weight man with the hilt of her blade protruding from his chest and she's laughing deliriously for a good few moments before reality kicks in and the tang of blood is heavy in the air.

Margaret sometimes thinks the biggest thrill she gets is plunging her knife between the ribs of those who would rather see her on her back. It's better than any pleasure, any orgasm, she's ever experienced. She's drank expensive wine and robed herself in bearskins before but nothing has ever compared.

But she doesn't do it on purpose.

In the end, she's left with a body. And Margaret has to get rid of the body to avoid a hanging.

Sheriff Malloy knows there's something amiss although the rest of the girls, if they suspect, keep their mouths shut. The first time it happens, she gestures desperately to Anne in the hallway who almost screams when she enters the room. She cries,

"Oh, Margaret, what 'ave you done!"

But helps to roll the body up in the elk skin rug regardless and they pay a stranger with a cart to take it away. Day after next, the body is found in the woods.

Margaret catches Anne's eye across the street and shakes her head.

"No one listens to girls like us," she whispers later, dangerously, into Anne's ear, when the music and voices in the saloon are loud enough to disguise their conversation.

The Sheriff would never believe it was an act of self-defence.

Margaret has seen people in Valentine shot down in the dirt for far less before and Anne agrees –

"I won't say nothin'!"

– and pets Margaret's hand.

She isn't to know that in barely three hours time, Margaret will be back upstairs with a gent between her thighs and hot, red blood gushing between her fingers. She gets lost in the moment once again, twisting the knife into the man's chest as he coughs and gurgles through his pain, slowing his thrashing.

Finally, stilling. 

The outlaw – when Magaret recruits him, a six body count deep some two months later – must understand the predicament too.

He doesn't breathe a word.

This man, Margaret can tell, has seen his fair share of blood. In fact, in the same week, she sees him beat several shades of shit outta Tommy in a brawl that finds it way onto the street.

He seems to believe her faux distress and claims of abuse, and takes the dead body down to the pigs.

Margaret gives him all that she has.

He disappears back into the darkness and the body isn't found.

The man becomes Margaret's first reliable male ally and, when she thinks she might recognise a description overheard between the gamblers, upstairs in the saloon, she tunes her hearing out. She doesn't want to know the man's name any more than he does hers.

It suits Margaret fine.

When she's standing above a bleeding bigwig, confident enough when he'd been pawing at her skirts but shuddering, shivering and screeching when she pinned him to the mattress, she knows her best bet is to find the man. Sometimes Margaret hits herself in the face first to make her story more believable or else closes her hands tight around her throat to bring her breath out in gasps. She grabs the man by the stairs as he leaves the saloon, sometimes sober, sometimes tipsy. And either way, he deals with the mess.

He saves Margaret a good few times, truth be told, from the law.

He lies to other citizens if they catch him, telling them the dead men on his shoulder are merely drunk and always maintaining a facade of calm authority. Like he knows what he's doing.

To say that Margaret is grateful would be an exaggeration, however.

She's using her intelligence.

She knows the difference between good men and bad and this one is neither, hovering somewhere in the middle. All the same, there are nights when Margaret bays him upstairs, watches the man hoist the new body up with a grunt and make off towards the pig pens, and she wonders what he gets out of it. Margaret understands the rewards of bounty hunting and bank heists and all the rest but feeding a body to the pigs is hardly high on anyone's list of favourites, at least as she knows.

He'd surely earn more from holding the doctor at gunpoint; getting to bottom of whatever seedy operation is being carried out in the backroom of the store.

But perhaps this is better.

For what reason, Margaret doesn't know, only assumes in a way that the man is as twisted as Margaret's mother would've told her she is, were she around to witness the killings.

Margaret makes sure to pay him on every occasion, never cutting a cent short. She daren't play the dangerous game of taking a few extra dollars out of sum she presents to the man for his hard work, lest he notice and confront her on the subject. The townsfolk seem to like him well enough. They approach him with kind words in the street and merry greetings and, if given the choice, they'd side with him.

He could fess to the Sheriff in an instant.

She'd swing from the gallows if the man took her story to the law.

Margaret doesn't see the sense in playing with fire when already, in her room, she has a sizeable amount saved up – almost $400, stolen supposed-post-coitus alone. One day, she plans to catch a train south from Valentine and shack up somewhere better, with richer patrons. The whispers of missing men will follow and, although Margaret won't intend to sheath the blade of her knife into the flesh of a client, no doubt it'll happen again.

It always does.

The men are never content to give up their wares without getting something in return and Margaret has fallen out of the habit of giving any more than a fondle to get them up the stairs.

She's curious as to whether the outlaw will be happy to follow her into the next town, too, but daren't ask on the off-chance that he really, truly, still believes her tales of violence and,

"Oh, Mister, it were either him or me!"

On one night, of course, he questions her about it. He says, in that rough, deep voice, that Margaret sure seems to run into trouble often; has a lot of angry men coming through the door who are riled at the sight of her ankles.

Margaret looks up.

She's kneeling on the floor and scrubbing at the stains. She has pitched the clip of money onto the bed between them but she catches the man's eye and he isn't going for the cash. Instead, his gaze lingers between the blood on her hands and her bosom and then, eventually, comes back to Margaret's face. His hand closes gently around the butt of the pistol at his waist.

As if a comfort.

Margaret heaves a breath.

She croons towards the man, sliding her arms forwards across the floor and puffing her chest out for him to see – an attempt to alleviate whatever shit storm is coming her way.

"You're wantin' a different sorta payment," she realises.

"Naw," says the man. "I'm just wonderin'..."

"Whatta girl like me does to find herself in a place like this?"

He shakes his head.

"Lotta bodies," he tells her instead. "Imagine some folk have heavy pockets before they come in, if y'know what I mean."

"They're light when they leave," says Margaret.

"I bet they are," says the man.

For a moment, Margaret thinks she'll have to kill him too.

She still has the knife resting against her boot. It wouldn't be difficult to launch herself towards the man and embed the blade into his neck, but it's a damn shame. He's nothing if not efficient. Not a single body has been found since the man's arrival and Margaret knows she'll miss having someone to do her dirty work and even, perhaps, the crooked half-smile that plays on the corners of his mouth.

Margaret would have to resort again to dragging the bodies out by herself and it's difficult for a girl her size.

She's poised for whatever goes down, in any case.

The man reaches forwards and Margaret goes for her knife. She's halfway to her feet when he takes the money from the bed and laughs carelessly into her face.

"Relax," says the man, "I ain't gonna hit you. But this is the last time, y'know."

"It ain't," says Margaret.

As if nothing is less incriminating.

She follows the man boldly into the hallway and down into the saloon. Still undressed, there are drunken hollers from the men and some of the more conservative ladies act as if the scandal here is Margaret in her undergarments for the world to see.

Not the dead bodies.

Not the rattle of rings and gold in her purse.

She grabs for the man's arm and he turns, there at the bottom of the stairs, coming in tight. She can smell the lye soap the girls use in the hotel across the street and a twinge of gun oil and horses and leather.

He could send Margaret flying into an early grave and she wouldn't have the chance to react.

"Why'd you do it?" he asks, low, like a secret. "All those times."

"I told you –" says Margaret.

"The truth," says the man. "They never laid on a hand on you."

"No," she says. "Just the once."

"Then why?"

"It don't make a difference," she tells him. "Men like that..."

They belong with the pigs.

They get what they deserve.

Margaret feels the exhale of the man's breath, slow and dry, across her cheeksas he laughs again. She fails to catch the joke. They're close enough to touch but also to hide the knife that is still clutched in Margaret's hand, pressing between the man's coat and against his belly. She doesn't want to use it on him.

An idle threat might do the trick but the man is not for spooking.

From across the bar, Anne is watching the exchange with caution. She's forgotten about the gent in her company whose smile holds a proposition and braces herself against the counter on alert, should she need a push start. Margaret steadfast avoids her stare of concern, glaring back at the outlaw and challenging him to defy her.

"They're better off dead," she whispers.

The blade tilts with intent into his stomach.

"S'what I thought," says the man, and his arms come forward. He's pushing a rag – a handkerchief – a bandana – into Margaret's hands to cover the knife and the blood from her last victim, still tainting the skin of her wrists dry, brown and crusty.

The man's right shoulder also bares a splodge of dark crimson as evidence of their engagements.

"Clean yourself up," he says, "'fore someone gets suspicious."

And like that, he's gone.

He turns tail and pushes his way through the swinging doors and Margaret wastes only a moment staring on after him before she, too, lurches back up the staircase.

It's then, for the first time, that Margaret feels afraid.

The eyes of the saloon are on her, with blood to the elbow and a dagger in hand.

She has no reason to think that _the_ _last time_ pertains the man going to the law but she finds she has never fumbled into a dress quicker. There are stains on the mattress and on the floorboards; blood settled deep into the cracks of the wood, from the first time and the last, and every occasion in between. Margaret upturns the water jug. She slings it over herself and the room, soaking the bed linen through in a sudden panic.

From the doorway comes a gasp. Anne is letting herself inside.

"I knew it, you've done it again!"

"Done what?" cries Margaret.

She isn't about to dawdle, wasting precious seconds when the Sheriff could be marching in at any minute. She's throwing the rest of her belongings into whatever space she can find – her pockets and her waistband.

The knife goes straight up her sleeve.

The boots of the dead man are shoved haphazardly under the bed, where normally she'd sell them, and Anne goes spare.

"I thought he'd threatened you," she says, in a high voice. There is fear laced through her words and her movements, halting, pleading, as she moves more closely to Margaret. "I thought he was gonna beat on you, but – oh, Mags! Who's clothes are those?"

"It ain't your business."

"Violet's pa's been missin' for weeks, Margaret."

"I don't know what you mean! Get outta my way."

"Wait –"

"Let go!"

The back of Margaret's hand strikes hard against Anne's cheek and Margaret shoves her out of the way, bolting for the door. She takes the back stairs down under the night sky and she runs.

She looks wild beyond question.

Townsfolk leap to either side as Margaret dashes through the street, blonde hair flying. She doesn't know jack about Violet's pa nor any other fate that may have befallen the girl's dear old dad. He's never come near her. She knows the hat he wears with the plumage of feathers is mighty similar to the one that's been slung on the back of the outlaw's horse as of late, but nothing else. And it's likely a coincidence.

She has to get home.

Margaret doesn't think twice about the risk she's taking. No doubt, she's a fool for lingering in the vicinity when there's every chance a search party will show up at her door with pistols raised but, given the circumstances, there's no alternative. The rest of Margaret's money is stored in an old salmon tin inside the chimney. If she doesn't get that, she'll be walking the tracks.

First light will see the first train of the day, and Margaret plans to board with a one-way ticket to Saint Denis. Maybe further. She hasn't rationalised. All she knows is to get out of town.

She won't be suspected.

Margaret will change her name and transform into a new woman; burn the clothes that now she's stuffing urgently into a bag and start afresh. She'll shake her head – 

"No, sir!"

– if any squealers from Valentine come to pay a visit.

It's a dangerous gamble, but one nevertheless that Margaret has to settle on. As soon as she's packed, she takes the clip from the tin and hurries back out into the nautical dawn, avoiding the road, creeping through shrubbery. In the last few hours, she hunkers down within eye view of the station.

She doesn't spare a thought for the witness who's cheek will be stinging with the force of her hit; for the woman with far less to lose than the accomplice with a bounty hanging already over his head.

The loyalty of working girls is something seldom challenged.

Unfortunately, Margaret has spoken too many times in the past about schedules and dining cars to leave her bridges unburned. She's taken down by the Deputy in the cool light of day, with one foot on the ground and another in the air.

Smoke billows in a taunt from the train's stationary engine.

Margaret screams blue bloody murder and thrashes like a snake in the grass as she's hogtied in place, a boot on her back, tickets in hand. A crowd of morning commuters stop to watch with confusion and excitement as she's reprimanded, but no one comes to her aid. Not a soul intervenes. For a second, in the chaos, Margaret thinks she sees the face of the outlaw – sitting atop his horse on the other side of the tracks – but then she is lifted into the air.

There is dust in Margaret's eyes and the train is moving off without her.

Whatever shrieking insult she had in the moment ferments with the realisation on the way back to town. Margaret rattles around on the floor of the prison wagon and feels the bandana wrapped tight around the knife in her sleeve, useless in retrospect, but affirming one sure truth.

Margaret knows the outlaw isn't to blame.

She casts the bandana through the bars, blade and all.

It's Anne she sees when she's dragged into the Sheriff's office. It's Anne's face that drains of colour under the scrutiny of her stare and Anne who stutters ardently about doing the right thing.

Margaret swears and spits at her.

She lets angry, betrayed tears come spilling hot over her cheeks and gives the Sheriff not a shred of peace for the rest of the afternoon, even after he dismisses the witness with an advisory caution. He says that no one minds a painted cat; that the girls have always been free to make a living as they please in Valentine with no repercussions.

"Provided," he adds, "they learn to keep they claws to themselves."

"You got it all wrong," says Margaret.

But, of course, he doesn't believe the spiel of self-defence. Sheriff Malloy waggles his finger, bemused, and dismisses the story.

"They were good men," he tells her, as he goes back to his books. "There's no room in this town for murderers like you."

There's no time for a trial, either.

No option for an alibi.

Margaret knows what awaits – the short drop through the floor to hang in front of the townsfolk. If she's lucky, she'll break her neck on the way down and if she isn't... Well, she's been told it's mighty painful. Her only hope is to escape before a week on Friday but that night, as she grapples with the lock in the gloom of her cell, the prisoner opposite looks up from his bunk.

He's a well-to-do kinda man; fancy, even with grime streaked through his hair and the crack in his spectacles.

"Don't bother," he says. "I've tried it already."

"I ain't a criminal," says Margaret.

"And nor I!" he insists. "I sell medicine – heal the wounded. I'm a medical man, you know."

"Sure seems it."

"Believe what you like."

"Pipe down!" comes the shout, from the Deputy across the room.

He has his nose in a novel, a bottle of whiskey on the desk, but Margaret backs down. She lowers her voice.

"Why're you here?"

"Do you know an Arthur Morgan?" asks the prisoner.

Margaret shakes her head. She is many things, but a snitch isn't one. If she's suspected the identity of the outlaw at any point, she's deliberately avoided connecting the dots. Little has changed.

She wraps her arms around herself and turns away.

"I never heard of him," she says stoically. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks in advance for any comments, kudos, etc.


End file.
